Murder Of Angels - a crime thriller (Detective Inspector Declan Walsh Book 2)

by Jack Gatland

  If he realised this, Macca said nothing. ‘Okay, cool,’ he simply replied. ‘So, why don’t you stay with us until they release your parents, and then we can go ask them all together?’

  ‘I need to get back to school, Macca. I need—’

  ‘That wasn’t a request,’ Macca snapped, and suddenly the fearsome gang leader that Stripe had heard of so many times was sitting there. ‘You’re staying with us until I find out who showed the police Gabby’s body. And then they’re gonna tell me everything.’

  Stripe felt his bowels collapse at that, and it took every urge in his body not to piss himself with abject terror.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, bluffing out his confidence once more. ‘I can hang out with you guys. If you don’t mind me kicking your ass at bowling.’

  Macca laughed at that. ‘You’ll go far, little one,’ he said, rising from the diner booth. Stripe however looked around.

  ‘Is there a toilet nearby?’ he asked. ‘I’m lactose intolerant, and that milkshake’s going right through me.’

  Macca pointed at a door to the side of the diner and, leaving his schoolbag, Stripe rose quickly from the booth and ran through it. Macca picked up Stripe's bag and walked towards the others in his crew, now arguing about a strike.

  But then he stopped.

  ‘I’ve not seen the news. Is she dead?’

  Macca hadn’t said that Gabby had been on the news.

  Something was off here.

  Turning slowly, Macca started towards the toilet door. Behind him, Harrison had noted this change of direction and hurried to catch up with his master.

  ‘You alright?’ he asked. Macca didn’t answer, opening the door and entering the men’s toilets. There were five cubicles on the right and five urinals on the left. On the back wall were four sinks, with air based hand washers secured to the wall by the side. Above the sinks were posters, but over one was a small window.

  The top of the window had been opened, looking out into a rubbish area at the back of the cinema, which eventually opened out into Star City itself.

  Apart from Macca and Harrison, the toilet was empty.

  ‘He went through the window,’ Macca hissed. ‘Find him.’

  Harrison turned and left the toilet at speed while Macca Byrne pulled out his phone and texted a simple message to one of his contacts. He only needed to send one. The contact would do everything else.

  Stripe Mullville to be found and brought to me ASAP. Ten grand to first to do it.

  Pressing send, Macca looked out of the window.

  Stripe saw who buried Gabby.

  And Macca Byrne was going to have words with him.

  15

  Teenage Kicks

  It was shortly before four when Declan arrived at the house he had once lived happily in for many years. Walking up the drive, he felt slightly out of body, as if the last year simply hadn’t happened, and he was now walking to the door of his house, to see his wife and daughter. He was so caught up in the thought that he almost tried to insert a key into the door, pulling himself out of the daydream in time to pause and ring the doorbell.

  Lizzie answered it, her blonde hair long and loose around her neck, a chunky sweater over jeans completing the ensemble.

  ‘You look like shit,’ she said, pecking him on the cheek. ‘Suppose you’d better come in.’

  As Declan entered the hallway, pulling off his coat, Lizzie continued into the living room. Declan still loved her, and he knew that in a way she still loved him; they could have simply been cordial for Jessica’s sake, but it had been the police force that pulled them apart, not an infidelity on either side, so there was an unspoken life’s a bit shit attitude about the whole thing. And Declan had promised to always share the duties where his daughter was concerned.

  ‘She’ll be down in a minute,’ Lizzie said as she sat on the sofa. There was a fresh mug of tea in front of her. Declan almost asked if she’d made one for him, but bit his tongue. This wasn’t his house, and she wasn’t his wife anymore. Quietly, he sat beside her.

  ‘So, have you met this Owen?’ he asked. Lizzie nodded.

  ‘In passing,’ she said. ‘When picking Jessie up, or when there’s been a parent teacher thing.’

  ‘There have been parent teacher things?’

  Lizzie looked to Declan. ‘Would you have gone if I’d told you?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Then shut up,’ she looked to her watch. ‘He should be here soon.’

  ‘So what, they’re going for a milkshake? That’s a bit fifties, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s retro,’ Lizzie replied. ‘Seeing a film isn’t cool anymore. And the shake place does gluten-free and vegan shakes.’

  ‘Jessie’s gluten-free and vegan?’ Declan had a sudden fear that whenever his daughter had visited, she’d eaten meat feast pizzas under duress. Lizzie shrugged.

  ‘Probably not, but who knows these days? Her hair’s changed colour, by the way. It’s now pillar box red.’

  Declan nodded. Jessica’s hair had been bright blue the last time they’d seen each other. He’d learned after fifteen years that it was a coin toss to expect the same colour twice in a row.

  Lizzie was fidgeting, as if unsure on whether to say something.

  ‘Just say it,’ Declan said. ‘Whatever it is, just tell me.’

  Lizzie nodded.

  ‘Look, Declan,’ she replied carefully, as if stepping on eggshells. ‘We’ve been apart a while now, and I don’t know if you’ve dated anyone yet or not…’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Oh. Well. Um.’ Lizzie was floundering. Declan smiled.

  ‘Are you asking my permission to go for a drink with Robbie Brookman?’ he asked.

  ‘For Christ's sake, Dec!’ Lizzie rose now, fury in her expression. ‘Are you stalking me? I told you—’

  ‘Robbie called me last week,’ Declan couldn’t help it; he started to laugh. ‘Asked if he could maybe take you out. It impressed me he called and I said to do it.’

  Lizzie faltered for a moment. ‘He called you first?’

  Declan nodded. Lizzie sat back down on the sofa.

  ‘Well now I don’t know if I want to.’

  ‘Don’t be a grump, Lizzie,’ Declan said, still chuckling. ‘You’re a beautiful, witty and intelligent woman who doesn’t deserve a life of sitting at home waiting for her teenage daughter to come home at night. Make Jessie worry where you are for a change.’

  ‘Thanks, Dec.’ Lizzie smiled, and Declan could see that it was real. ‘It means a lot you feel this way.’ She looked at her watch again. ‘I’d better check on Jess, make sure she’s ready.’ And with that Lizzie left the living room, leaving Declan on his own.

  Finally alone, Declan released the pent up breath he’d been holding. He wasn’t fine with Robbie and Lizzie dating at all, but at the same time he knew that it was selfish of him to consider anything else for her. Earlier that same day, he’d wondered if he could make a future with Kendis; how was that any different to what Lizzie was thinking right now?

  A knock on the door brought Declan back to the present. It was soft, nervous even. Declan looked to the stairs; nobody was coming down.

  Looks like it’s up to me to welcome our guest then, he thought to himself as he walked down the hall to the door and opened it.

  Standing at the door was a sixteen-year-old boy. He was lanky and slim, his ginger hair spiked out in a trendy style. He wore a grey hoodie and denim combination jacket over black jeans, a striped T-shirt underneath. And to cap off the look, he wore Chuck Taylor Converse hi-tops, with what looked like Batman painted on the sides.

  And he looked horrified to see Declan.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, looking around. ‘I was looking for…’

  ‘Jessica? I know. She’s getting ready,’ Declan replied. ‘I’m her dad.’

  He moved back from the door, allowing Owen into the house, indicating that he should enter the living room.

  ‘I didn’t think you lived here,
’ Owen said, entering. ‘I mean, she said—’

  ‘That me and her Mum were separated?’ Declan nodded. ‘We are. But when I heard that my dearest darling daughter, the light of my life and entire purpose of my existence was going on a date with a strange young man?’

  He sat facing Owen now, leaning in conspiratorially, Owen subconsciously leaning in to meet him.

  ‘Well, let’s just say that I moved everything to be here.’

  ‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Walsh,’ Owen held out his hand. It was trembling. Declan took it, shaking it.

  ‘And you, Owen,’ he said. ‘Although it’s DI Walsh. As in Detective Inspector. As in police. As in if anything was to happen to my daughter to make her cry, I could ensure that you’d never be found again.’

  Owen’s mouth opened and shut twice as Declan leaned back.

  ‘Only kidding,’ he said. ‘Although hurt my daughter and I’ll ensure your life is a living hell.’

  There was the sound of movement from the stairs, and Declan turned to see Jessica and Lizzie walking down them. Jessica was dressed in Doc Martens, a Fred Perry dress and a leather bomber jacket. With her bright red hair, she seemed to be half Mod, and half Punk.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were here already!’ she exclaimed to Owen before hugging Declan. ‘Or you!’

  ‘I’ve been getting to know your date,’ Declan said, looking to Owen and smiling darkly. Jessica nodded.

  ‘I bet you have,’ she said, turning to Owen. ‘Did he do the Detective Inspector speech?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Owen said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a five-pound note.

  ‘And the ‘I could make your life hell if you hurt my daughter’ one?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Owen repeated as he passed the note to Jessica. Declan looked at his daughter in hurt surprise.

  ‘You bet on my reactions?’ he asked. Jessica smiled.

  ‘Come on, Dad, you’re predictable as anything. Of course we made a bet on you.’ She then passed the note to Lizzie. ‘I bet Mum that you’d show your warrant card too, but she felt you were a little more restrained these days.’

  ‘Et tu, Brute?’ Declan was feeling severely got at here. Lizzie laughed.

  ‘Go on, get out of here, the two of you,’ she said, passing the note back to her daughter. ‘And have a shake on me, courtesy of your father.’

  Jessica gave Declan a hug and then, with a shy look at Owen, a look that seemed to be shyly returned, the two teenagers left Lizzie and Declan alone.

  ‘Were we ever like that?’ Declan eventually said.

  ‘Christ, I hope not,’ Lizzie replied. ‘Stay for some dinner?’

  Declan shook his head. ‘Work calls,’ he replied. ‘Thanks for letting me know about this, Liz. Even if it was so that I could be the butt of a joke.’

  Lizzie embraced him, but for the first time in a long while it felt more like the embrace of a sister.

  ‘Anytime,’ she said.

  ‘And call Robbie,’ Declan reminded her as he left, realising that as he said it, it felt good.

  Maybe it was time to move on.

  Stripe ran down the streets of Saltley in an uncontrolled panic. He knew that by escaping through the toilet window, he’d damned himself in the eyes of Macca Byrne, and the chances were that by now everyone in Birmingham would be hunting for him. Added to that, the police would have realised that he’d bunked off from school by now, and they too would scour the streets for him.

  Crossing the road, Stripe saw an alleyway leading towards what looked like a church. But this wasn’t any church, this was Saint Wilfred’s Church in Saltley. Stripe had been here in the past, and knew from his history books that if you ever needed to find sanctuary, or somewhere to hide, you ran to the church.

  And with the innocence and utter faith in this that only a child would have, Stripe turned and ran towards Saint Wilfred’s.

  ‘You’re bloody kidding me.’

  The PCSO (or to state his full name, the Police Community Support Officer) that had accompanied Monroe and Doctor Marcos stared at his phone in a mixture of irritation and anger as he sat in the back seat of Doctor Marcos’ Mercedes. Monroe, currently in the passenger seat, looked around to him, remembering for the first time in about fifteen minutes that there was even someone in the car with them.

  ‘Problem?’ he asked. The PCSO shrugged.

  ‘Idiots,’ he replied. ‘The bloody Liaison Support Officers lost Alfie Mullville and now there’s apparently a bounty out on him from Macca Byrne.’

  ‘So the bairn’s on the run?’ Monroe mused on this as Doctor Marcos turned off the A38 and onto a side road. ‘That could make questioning awkward. What’s your name again?’

  ‘Holland,’ the PCSO said. ‘Like the country.’

  PSCO Holland was in fact nothing like the country of Holland; he was a young, skinny brunette that wore a uniform that looked three sizes too big for him.

  ‘Tell whoever texted you we need to be informed on any changes here,’ Monroe ordered. ‘We need to speak to this boy before we leave Birmingham.’

  Doctor Marcos pulled the car to a stop beside a church, looking to Monroe.

  ‘We’re here. Want me in with you?’ she asked. Monroe shook his head.

  ‘I’m just going to speak to the Vicar about Gabrielle Chapman,’ he said. ‘I’m not expecting much.’ And with that he exited the car, PCSO Holland reluctantly joining him.

  The church was the same as many in the area, a literal Georgian block of religion amid a substantial garden, a square of grass and graves, an iron fence containing it while terraced houses from a far later time lined all four sides, a road going around it.

  ‘Saint Wilfred’s Church,’ Monroe noted the sign as they walked up to the main door. ‘What can you tell me about it?’

  ‘Dunno,’ PCSO Holland replied, still looking at his phone. Monroe sighed, starting to believe that Bullman had sent PSCO Holland along purely to annoy him.

  Monroe wasn’t a very religious man, and because of this, the interior of the church didn’t really excite him that much. And so, with the reluctant Holland ambling along behind him, Monroe walked up to the Altar.

  ‘Hello? Anyone here?’ he shouted out. ‘DCI Monroe. I’m looking for a priest.’

  There was a clatter from behind the Altar, and Monroe walked over to it, leaning over it as he stared down at a small boy hiding half under the Altar cloth, looking up at him in utter terror.

  ‘Hello,’ Monroe said, flashing his friendliest smile. ‘You’re not a priest.’ The boy looked no older than twelve, thirteen even, although the white stripe in his fringe gave him an artificially older appearance. ‘And who might you be?’

  The boy rose to his feet, backing away from Monroe. ‘They’re after me,’ he whispered. ‘They’ll be here any minute. You’re a copper, right? You have to help me. It’s the law.’

  ‘Christ,’ PCSO Holland muttered, staring at the boy. ‘That’s Alfie Mullville.’

  Monroe looked up at a cross above the Altar, an effigy of Jesus Christ nailed onto it.

  If you’re trying to make me a believer, he thought, you’re doing a bloody good job here.

  ‘Are you Alfie?’ he asked. The boy nodded.

  ‘They call me Stripe,’ he replied.

  ‘Who’s after you?’ Monroe looked back to the entrance to the church as he heard faint footsteps approaching. It was likely just parishioners, but Alfie’s terrified expression and tone had caused Monroe’s adrenaline levels to spike, and he knew he was entering fight-or-flight mode. ‘The police?’

  ‘Macca Byrne.’

  Monroe looked to PCSO Holland, ensuring that the officer had heard this. ‘Macca Byrne is coming here?’

  ‘People saw me,’ Stripe explained. ‘They’ll tell Macca. He’ll find me here. But churches are supposed to give sanctuary.’

  ‘You might want to call for backup,’ Monroe whispered to Holland, before turning back to Stripe. ‘Why would Macca Byrne want you so badly?’<
br />
  ‘Because I saw who killed Gabby. In the woods.’ Stripe was panicking now, pacing as he spoke. ‘I came here because Father Lawson was always nice to me. I thought he might be able to help.’

  ‘Father Lawson? He’s the priest here?’ Father Barry Lawson was the name of the priest involved in the births of Gabrielle and Angela back in London. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he was here, the priest that was taking Gabrielle’s confessions. Monroe wondered whether the last email Billy had sent, the one he hadn’t managed to read yet, had mentioned this. ‘How can he help you?’

  ‘I’d like to know that too.’

  The voice had a hint of the Black Country accent, and Monroe turned to see a young man, dressed in black at the other end of the nave, five of his equally young crew behind him.

  ‘I know who you are, Mister Byrne,’ Monroe said, pulling out his warrant card. ‘I’m DCI Monroe. This boy is under my protection. And we—’ he looked to PCSO Holland and stopped.

  Holland was already backing away from him, hands in the air, looking to Macca Byrne.

  ‘He’s not with me,’ Holland said. ‘I let you know about the boy. You leave me out of this.’

  ‘You cowardly prick,’ Monroe hissed. ‘Turncoat bastard. You’re not worthy of the uniform you wear.’

  Holland said nothing, looking to the floor as, at the back of the church, Macca Byrne chuckled.

  ‘Oh, dude,’ he said to PCSO Holland. ‘Did you just screw up. We’d already been told the kid was in here. You just shit away your career for nothing, you prick.’

  And with that, Macca Byrne and his men started down the nave towards Monroe and Stripe, pulling wicked looking knives out of their pockets as they did so. Monroe looked around. Even without the weapons, a six on one fight wouldn't be pretty. Now, it was looking to be pretty damned brutal.

  ‘You don’t want to do this,’ Monroe said, as calm and as official as he could.

  Macca smiled.

  ‘Actually, Mister Fed man, I pretty much do.’

  And with that, Macca Byrne and his crew moved in.